


What Doesn't Kill You

by socolormecurious



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Superheroes, lots and lots of characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socolormecurious/pseuds/socolormecurious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's days like today when I really regret the whole supervillain thing. Well, I always regret becoming a supervillain." After three years at Snow Industries, Katniss Everdeen has had enough of them exploiting her powers, and, apparently, she's not the only one that feels this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faux Action Girl

It's days like today when I really regret the whole supervillain thing. Well, I always regret becoming a supervillain, but the point still stands. Nothing quite brings the biggest mistakes of your life into focus like being trapped a burning building that's starting to collapse on you.

The fire really isn't the problem, though. I've never been afraid of fire, not since I was a little girl. I can thank my grandmother for that. I inherited the oh-so-lovely ability to start fires with nothing from her. My first fire, in fact, was when I was five. I was crying because my mother wanted me to get a haircut, and then suddenly, there was a jet of fire coming out of my right hand.

As for this fire that is going to get me killed, I'm the one that set it. The same set of superpowers that help me start fires keeps me from burning to a crisp when they are blazing. Fire, to me, feels like a gust of wind. A strong wind, when it's a fire this large, a wind that threatens to push me over, but wind nonetheless. It doesn't do any lasting damage. But falling beams because the building is structurally unsound? Those will get me in trouble. As will my presence here when the fire department finally shows up. It's been long enough for the fire department in this town to get their act together.

There's something large and wood ahead of me-a desk, maybe? Summoning a little extra fire power, I attempt to burn it down, but once I do so, I see that I was facing a dead end. There's not even a window on that wall, which means I've wasted precious time and energy on fifteen seconds of nothing.

My radio is not in great shape-ironically, no one seems to care that much about making me fireproof gear-but I try it anyway. "Control, this is Katni-I mean, Agent Twelve Golf calling for backup. Control? Can you hear me?" Hypothetically, my mentor, Haymitch, should be on the other end of the line. Hypothetically, my radio is working. Hypothetically, Haymitch isn't drunk while I'm on assignment. Again.

Okay. Deep breath. At least I don't have to worry about carbon monoxide poisoning. When I turn my head, my braid whacks me in the face. Great. I try to remember which way I came in, but I was moving so quickly that I can't retrace my steps. The terrain has changed drastically since I entered. I go left, hoping that's an option.

The smoke is really picking up. If I don't get out of here fast, when the fire department arrives, they're going to be very shocked to find out that I'm alive, let alone moving around. When the fire department arrives... that's the real danger here, I remind myself. All kinds of nasty questions will come up if they get here. Who am I? Why am I here? Why am I wearing a ridiculous black jacket and pants and combat boots?

The cops are why, even if Control heard my pleas, I probably won't warrant back up. Too risky. There have to be plenty of strongmen, 10s, on call, but the first rule of working for Snow Industries is to never get caught. It's why I know the names of three, maybe four, people involved with the whole operation. If you're running a super-powered crime syndicate in a world that doesn't believe in superpowers, you're going to make extra sure that no one blows your cover.

Thankfully, there seems to be a set of stairs. Wooden stairs, but, hey, I'll take what I can get. With a deep breath, I start to run down them. Some part of me must still be on fire because I can hear the steps behind me starting to crackle. I run faster. But it's not working, and by the time I hit the middle of the stairs, I can't go back, and the steps are collapsing under my weight. There's a fleeting moment of panic-what will Prim say if I die this way? I have to keep moving forward, so I take a huge leap to bypass the bottom three stairs altogether.

And I collide into something solid enough to be a wall.

It chuckles. "I don't know why you radioed for backup, 12G. It looks like you were handling this pretty well on your own." Okay, it is a he. And a 10, since we're both not on the floor right now from my former momentum. I seriously did not know a human torso could be that hard.

I don't look up, though. I just try to brush him off. "Let's just get out of here, okay, and then exchange pleasantries." I also take a step back. This was my mission, after all. "How do you think we should go out?" I scan the room for possible exits.

"How about the door?" He pulls me back to him, and whispers in my ear, "the fire department is right on my heels. They'll be here any second now." I'm slightly uncomfortable with him in my personal space; it feels like there's an electric current between us. But he then unceremoniously heaves me over his shoulder-a fireman's carry. From his small chuckle, the irony isn't lost on him, either. He whispers again, this time a little bit louder so that I can still hear, "pretend you've passed out, okay? I'll do all the talking." He readjusts my weight, shuffling me about two inches with a small heave. My waist ends up over his shoulder, and his arm is cradling my knees in. It's like I'm a sack of flour. I'm by no means heavy, but I'm still a fully grown woman. He's definitely a 10, and a cocky one at that. Before I can stop him, he's out the door, and I have no choice but to follow his plan. I try to flop over his shoulder like a rag.

I can hear the sirens, but they seem to becoming from the other side of the building. We must be exiting either through the side or the back. There's a woman crying, and another woman consoling her. I flinch at the sound because I know that their distress is my fault. If I can hear them, they must be able to see us. Are they alarmed? Scared? Me and Mystery Boy are lucky to have escaped the entire fire department, but if these two say something, we'll be in just as much trouble. Mystery Boy stops suddenly.

Oh shit. This is it. If he tries to fight, I'm going to have to help him, but I don't want to physically hurt civilians. I don't like injury anyone, but I will do what it takes to survive. Necessary evil, comes with the territory, whatever phrase you want to use to dehumanize it--hurting innocents sucks.

"Ladies," he says, his tone unusually... seductive. It's not just charm; there's confidence and suggestion in there, too. It's probably just the adrenaline and the fatigue, but parts of me feel like they're melting, just a bit. Maybe I didn't end up with a brainless strongman as back up. "You didn't see anything back here, so you decided to go around to the front to seek medical attention. There was absolutely nothing to be seen back here."

I can hear them moving, and then Mystery Boy pats my thigh, obviously trying to reassure me. How did that work? Did he intimidate them? Did he charm their panties off? Or is there more to this super than his physique would suggest? Also, what gives him license to touch me there? It's not the time to ask because we're not out of the clear yet.

He's walks ten, maybe fifteen blocks before he ducks into an alley and puts me down. "Well, that went down reasonably well, didn't it?" It's written all over his face as he sits down on a doorstep. He's oh-so pleased with himself.

I use the moment to catch my breath, and then take my first good look at him. It's dark in the alley, naturally, but I'm no longer fighting for my life (even though my heart refuses to get that message). He's built more like a wrestler than a football player. Broad shoulders, maybe 5'11" when standing, and big arms. Enough that I can't help but wonder if he was a wrestler before, maybe in high school, possibly even college. His eyes are maybe the bluest that I've ever seen; they're definitely brighter than Prim's. I think his hair is blond, but it's covered in soot, so I can't be quite sure. His uniform matches mine. He catches me looking, and he smiles.

Wait, what was the question? I'm scrambling on the inside, but I'm not going to let him know that. "I was doing fine before you showed up. I would have gotten out of there."

"Yeah, maybe, with a broken ankle, judging by that fall you almost took. And then you would have had to explain yourself to the fire department. And, judging from our limited interaction, 12G, tact doesn't seem to be your strong suit."

I should be furious, but honestly, I'm a bit too exhausted to fight him. "What exactly did you do to those two women? They're still alive, right?" As I'm speaking, I pull off my fireproof jacket that protects my clothes from me. It's stuffy and uncomfortable, unlike the tank I'm wearing underneath.

I think I spy a bit of drool at the corners of his mouth. I feel my face heating up. I didn't mean to seduce him. After a second, he's once again surprising me by answering my question despite the inadvertent distraction. "Trade secret." But then his face softens. "I'm a super, not a monster." I notice he doesn't use the word "supervillain," even though that's technically what we are. He's not saying anything novel, but for some reason, I believe it this time. Something about him... he's definitely not a typical strongman, or even a typical villain. He stands up, wiping his hands on his pants. "Come on, where's your car? Lemme walk you to it."

"Trade secret." There's a certain satisfaction in being able to throw his own words back at him. I start to walk away. I don't feel I need to waste the energy it would take to be nice to him. It's not like I'll ever see him again.

He steps in front of me. "Ah, but if I don't walk you to your car, how am I going to ask you for a cup of coffee?"

Is he asking me on a date? I'm not sure how I feel about that. I have a strict rule against dating coworkers-really, against dating anyone-but he did just save my life. Maybe not literally-after I got down those stairs, I would have been fine. But figuratively... I can't go to jail, and I can't lose this job. No one, save for drunk old Haymitch, knows I'm even involved in all of this, and it would kill Prim if she knew. Maybe I do owe him a cup of coffee. "You could just ask me now."

"Okay. Do you want to go get a cup of coffee? Now?"

Now now? When I smell like fire and am covered in soot? Is he overeager, or just scared that I'll run away? "I don't think this is the best time-"

"Tomorrow morning, then? After you debrief your mentor."

He looks hopeful. It's sweet. And it's just coffee, right? It's can't hurt. "How about before? Seven o'clock? The Last Grind"

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't take you for a morning person. That's near U's campus, right?" I nod. It's close also Haymitch's office. "Here, give me your burn phone." He's referring to the pre-paid phone provided by Snow Industries, not making a pun on my powers. I hand it over to him, and he puts a number in. "Text me if you decide to drop out, okay? That way I can roll over and go back to sleep."

I nod, amused more than anything else. But when our fingers brush as he gives me back the phone, I have to check to make sure I'm not burning him. It feels like a small flame has travelled up my arm and sent waves through my body. Now it's his turn to look amused. "'Til tomorrow, 12G." He waltzes off, and I'm too distracted to notice which way he goes.

It also takes me a second to realize I never gave him my name. Curious, I look to see what he put in my phone. 12B. Really? Another Twelve? Twelves all have the same mentor-Haymitch Abernathy. And we're the psychic powers, not the physical ones. Was that what the alley thing was? And a B. That means he signed on earlier than me...

He's definitely not just a strongman, but, instead of making me suspicious as it normally would, it just makes me curious. Who the hell is 12B?


	2. The Bechdel Test

Madge is lying quasi-upside down on the couch when I get in. Her feet are dangling in the air, and her blond hair is dragging across the floor. In classic college form, she's wearing a school sweatshirt and a pair of pajama shorts. I think that's a constitutional law text, but really, that's an educated guess because I can't read the stuff right side up, let alone upside down. "Oh, hey, you're back." She flips herself around to a more suitable position. Part of me envies how she can look good even after flipping her body completely upside down, when I know I look horrible from my rough evening. She pats a seat on the couch beside her. "How was work?" 

Like any good super, I have a cover story. I supposedly work shifts at a bar three nights a week (plus as a part time receptionist on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Supposedly. Naturally, my fireproof clothes are safely in the truck of my car, and I'm left wearing the tank and a pair of black shorts. I sit down. "Eventful. There was an accidental kitchen fire." I take off my shoes as I'm talking to her. They're not the pair I wore during the fire, but it's still nice to get them off. The only time I wasn't on my feet tonight was when Mystery Boy-12B, rather-was carrying me. 

"Yeah, Katniss, I wasn't going to say anything, but you reek like smoke." Madge wrinkles her nose. "It's like you went through a whole carton of cigarettes." 

I swat her. This is why I'm friends with Madge. She doesn't ask questions, even after nearly four years of being my roommate. She also doesn't make me gossip about boys and makeup, unlike certain other roommates... "Are Effie and Delly asleep?" I really don't want to spend another two hours of my life in interrogation about the men I meet at my fake job, especially because I did meet a real guy tonight. My feelings for 12B are mixed, and I don't want Effie and her Cosmo advice to jumble my head even more. 

"Delly's still out of town; she called to say we shouldn't expect her for another day or two. And Effie went down for her beauty rest half an hour ago. I think she's finally tired of waiting up for you but not getting any dirt." We both laugh at that, until I shush her. I don't want to wake Effie up, after all. 

"What are you studying for?" I ask, more eager to change the subject than to know about her latest paper. "Do you really want to know?" She closes the book with her highlighter still in it. "Okay, so, hypothetically, say someone signs a contract that says they're a slave. Is that contract legal? The gut reaction is no, and that's what the Supreme Court would say—especially considering the post-Lochner court that turned against the right-to-contract arguments—but the reasons why are what I'm going through in my paper. It's pretty basic stuff; I'm just filling out my FDRs in the major." I look at her blankly. "You didn't understand a single word I just said, did you?" 

"Oh, no. I knew that. Lochner. Right-to-contract. Yeah." 

"Uh-huh. Yeah, Katniss. Sure you did. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you." 

"Well, we all can't be PolySci majors, or the heirs to political dynasties, either." Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, has been running the City for the past ten years, though lately he's been under fire for the increase in crime. Meanwhile, Madge's aunt is a Senator. One time when visiting our apartment last year, Mrs. Undersee joked that Madge could be anything that she wanted to be, provided that it involved winning 270 votes in the electoral college. 

"Speaking of my dad, there's a fundraiser at the end of the month, and my date backed out. You interested? I'd ask Effie, but I'm afraid of what she'd wear." He narrowly won his last re-election, and he's got a challenger for the primaries. I try not to dwell on my part in his stress levels because Mr. Undersee is a good guy. Overworked and over his head, but still a good guy. Madge really tries to do as much for his campaign as possible, and she's not above guilt-tripping the rest of us for extra volunteers. 

I run through my schedule in my head. "Sure." I don't think I have anything to do After a night like tonight, I probably won't get an assignment for the rest of the month. Too many fires, and people start screaming serial arsonist. 

I'm beginning to space out from the exhaustion, and it must show because Madge looks concerned. "You look burnt outut. And we both know you're not going to sleep in tomorrow morning, no matter how much I try to reason with you, so you should go hit the sack." 

"I think I'm going to go rinse off first, but you're right. Night, Madge." 

"Night, Katniss." She heads back to studying, and I head to the shower.

\----- 

I'm running through the building again, but this time, Prim is screaming. She keeps calling my name, and I keep calling back to her, but she obviously can't hear me. Her sobs are being replaced by coughs, and I still can't find her. When I get to the stairs, there's a gravestone at the bottom labeled "Here lies Primrose Everdeen, thanks to her sister" but Prim is in the arms of Mystery Boy. He's carrying her much more gently than he carried me, his arms under her neck and her knees, but she's not moving. 

She's not moving. 

He whispers that he's sorry. And suddenly, I'm the one screaming. And the flames are coming all around me, but they can't kill me. I can't get hurt, no matter how I try. 

The blaring of the fire engines changes, however, to the sound of my alarm clock. I open my eyes, and the orange flames of the dream fade to the darkened white walls of my room just before dawn. I cough twice, a reflex reaction to the phantom smoke that couldn't have harmed me anyway. It's the worst nightmare I've had in a while, but not the worst ever. At least there's no accidental burn damage to my sheets or my furniture. That's nearly impossible to explain to inquiring minds. It's 5:15. I need to get a move on if I'm going to run and shower in before coffee with Mystery Boy. So I turn the alarm off instead of hitting snooze. A fitful night of sleep is going to have to do.

\----- 

The past hour and a half in my head have not been great. After every mission, I go over what happened in order to frame it for my debriefing with Haymitch. This morning, however, there's no way to make last night look better. I fucked up. I messed up, I panicked and radioed for help, and I dragged a relatively innocent--at least, innocent of this crime--colleague into my own disaster. Things worked out, but that was more luck than anything else. 

Though I would still kill to know how Mystery Boy got those women to back down. There's no way I would have been able to get them to shut their mouths. 

The lingering agitation also makes me move a little faster, so I'm early for coffee. The shop, catering as it does to college students who firmly believe that 6:45 is ungodly, isn't currently open, so I'm just sitting on a bench half a block away. It's hard to convince yourself you've got something to do in fifteen minutes when you're just staring at the street. I've already practiced my ability to memorize license plates enough today. And though I've tried to discover them, there aren't any loose threads on my new blue top. Thankfully, my phone--my real one, not the burner--starts vibrating. Primrose Everdeen. I pick it up immediately. "Hey, Little Duck! How are you?" 

"Good; I'm just waiting for the school bus, and I figured I would call up my favorite sister." She yawns slightly. A morning phone call from her isn't a ritual, per se, but she does whenever she needs to stay awake, which is often enough.

I shift forward in my seat and cover my left ear so that I can hear her a little bit better. "Oh really? Just good? How's Mom?" 

Prim sighs. "She had plans on Saturday, but she cancelled them to and slept in." I can just picture her biting her lip on that last sentence. Prim would never lie, but she hates it when I worry about her. 

"Has she been doing that a lot lately?" My mother first fell into depression when my father died, back when I was a senior in high school. The rest of that year was rough for her; she lost her job because she couldn't get out of bed in the morning. She even lost her powers, something she still hasn't gotten back. It's a big reason why I did what I did. Someone had to be looking out for the whole family. She's now better, thanks to a stronger drug regime, but every time I hear a story like this, I want to run home and protect Prim. And maybe slap my mother. 

"She's fine, Katniss, we're fine. But guess what I really wanted to tell you."

I look up at the top of the streetlight over my head. The best part about Prim is that she's much less serious about everything than I was at seventeen. The worst part is that she still tries to brush over anything difficult. Dark clouds don't exist in Prim's world. "What's that?" 

"I got my acceptance letter from Pitt today. Full merit scholarship. Isn't that great?" I try not to sigh. No, it's not great. As much as I love my sister, I want Prim as far from Snow Industries as I can get her. 

"I thought you wanted to go to Johns Hopkins, sweetie." She can't come to Pittsburgh. She can't find out what I do. 

"Well, yeah, but I thought you'd be happy because now I know I can always join you." 

"I am happy, Prim. Just remember, though, this is going to be the first of many acceptance letters." 

"I think you overestimate me, Katniss." I hear an engine in the background. "Well, that's--" 

"--the bus," I finish. "I love you, Duck. And make sure you don't catch senioritis!"

"Love you, too, Katniss." And with that, she hangs up on me. 

I slide my phone into my pocket and cover my eyes, tilting my head back. Snow Industries would love to have Prim. Her powers can't be weaponized like mine, but they're probably more valuable. Prim can heal most lacerations, bruises, and, yes, burns. If she assists in more major treatments, they tend to have fewer complications and faster healing rates. It's the same set of powers my mother had, before the depression, and, from a more militaristic standpoint, it means more people available for dastardly deeds. While I'm pretty sure Snow Industries hasn't approached Prim about a contract yet, if she comes to Pittsburgh, it's only a matter of time before they do. 

Like a good big sister, most of my time before and during my contract has been to make sure that Prim never has to sign one. I had already been accepted to Pitt with a full need-based scholarship when my father died, but as the months passed, the life insurance started to dry up and so did the family savings. It was looking like I was going to have to stay home to make ends meet. Worse yet, Prim was probably going to have to take an after school job. She was only fourteen at the time, and I knew working during her first year of high school was going to be tough. Even with the labor laws in place to protect younger workers, Prim wasn't going to have the time to study that she would need. Ever since we were kids, Prim's dream was to be a doctor. If she started off high school exhausted, that was never going to happen. So, when I got a letter in the mail from Snow Industries, I opened it without telling my mother. 

They said that they were looking for "people with extraordinary talents" to work in the Pittsburgh area to help the greater good. It seemed legitimate at the time. I had to send in my transcript, to go to their gym for an evaluation, and to interview with suits. I was then offered a job with a stipend that was large enough to cover my living expenses in the city, as well as a decent sum to keep my family afloat back home. All I had to do was sign on the dotted line, a contract for the next twelve years of my life. I didn't read the contract closely enough. 

These days, I don't know what I was thinking. Did I really think my skills--fire-making and archery--were going to be used for good? I can't build things. I can only destroy. But when my first assignment--;burning down an abandoned house so that the company would pay less in property taxes--was given to me, I tried to protest. It was no use, however. Snow Industries owns my powers, owns my life, owns me, until I am twenty-six. If I run away, they won't just stop my paychecks. They'll implicate me in the crimes I've committed for them, and they'll hurt my sister. I wish I had never gotten her into this mess, even if she never knows the truth. I wish I had never gotten myself into this mess. 

"Who's Duck? Your secret agent boyfriend you never mentioned?" My quiet moments of self-pity are interrupted by none other than Mystery Boy. Small, deep breath, and the mask of determination is back on. I remove my hands from my eyes. 

"Trade secret." It is really annoying, knowing he's holding things back. Not that other supers have never lied to me. They've just never been so open about it. It's almost as if Mystery Boy is more innocent than the rest of us, but that can't be true if he joined up before me. Jadedness is the most common superpower in our line of work. 

"Oh come on. I didn't mean it like that. I just like to keep some cards in my hand, okay? Here, let me make it up to you." He sticks out a gloved hand. "I'm Peeta." I take his hand and shake it. 

"As in the bread?" "Well, kinda. But really, it's a Scandinavian form of Peter." He's still shaking my hand. I don't think I've ever shaken hands with a non-politician this long. When I stare at him blankly, he just smiles. "And your name is? I'm not letting go until you tell me." 

"Katniss." He's still got that Cheshire grin when he drops my hand, but I'm not feeling his mood. In fact, there's a small part of me that wants to shove him--just a little bit--for getting under my skin so easily. 

"Well, Katniss," he says, catching my grey eyes with his blue ones and using the same liquid-chocolate tone he used on those women last night, "you're going to forgive me, and then have the best coffee date you've ever had." 

I feel a very sharp, stabbing pain in the back of my head after he speaks, but it's gone as fast as it came. "You're awfully full of yourself, aren't you, Peeta?" 

"You mean it didn't work on you?" He raises an eyebrow. "Well, then, we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way where you form an opinion of me after the date, when you're recapping with your friends. Come on, I know I'm freezing, and you have to be, too." I could argue with that since cold isn't really a thing I feel ever, but I'm playing nice today, so I follow him to the store. He orders some crazy concoction with extra espresso, but I select a Chai tea. I'm already sufficiently awake by this time in the morning. 

He insists on adding two muffins to the order just like he insists on paying. He tells me to go sit down, he'll bring over everything, too, but that's where I draw the line. I reach for his coffee, just to prove a point, but he does at the same time, so when our fingers brush against each other, there's that little flame again. It's amazing how quickly I can go from annoyed to confused around Peeta. 

Thankfully, he doesn't require any soulful questions from me as we drink. It's a lot of basic things. Favorite color. Favorite band. Favorite professor. He seems to care about all of the answers, though, and it keeps me from pulling away from the conversation. Why do like green? What was my first class with my favorite professor? The fact that his questions are so innocent is cute, but it's also annoying. I want things more personal, so I can throw harder questions right back at him, but he's being polite. He also seems to be on a mission to get me to laugh. He can get in line. 

When his drink is almost gone, Peeta leans back in his seat in the classic "fire away" pose. I'm still nursing my tea, but I put it down so I can ask him my own questions. "Okay, so the girl who made your coffee, what was her name, and where did she write her phone number?" 

"Her name is Caitlyn, and she accidentally wrote it on your napkin, not mine. Why, are you jealous?" He smiles. It's not even a smug, two-girls-on-one-date smile. It's a I'm-glad-I'm-passing-the-test smile more than anything else. Maybe I haven't, you know, seen a guy in a while, but I don't think it's normal to look as relaxed as he does on a first date. Only date. There is no way there's going to be a second date, even if he's Prince Harry. I don't have the time, and I don't want the commitment. 

"Seriously, what did you last night with those women? It's going to bug me until I get an answer." I huff a little bit, just to get my point across.

"The way you act, Katniss, could lead a guy to think that you only accepted the date because you wanted to know the answer." 

I look away, at a spot slightly to the right and above his head. "Well, you did save me." I hope he understands that's a grand admission for me. 

"Well, Katniss, my secret weapon is definitely third date material. I mean, you could probably find it out from someone else, but you're not getting it out of my lips." And there's that smile again. It'd be easy to hate him if he laughed at me, or if he was smirking, but he's doing neither. He looks like he's just having a good time, and I can't help but wonder if he's got an agenda. I get caught up looking at his lips. Delly would wax poetical about their shape fullness, but I can't get over how expressive they are. I almost feel I can read his mind, not from his eyes, but from the fractional differences in his lips. He catches me staring. "Of course, if you want to kiss me, you can do that any time you want. You don't have to wait until the third date for that." 

I don't point out the fact that should be obvious by now. There isn't going to be a third date. But maybe I'll find someone at the gym who knows the truth. I glance at my phone, and then jump slightly. It's 7:38. If I'm going to make my meeting with Haymitch, I'm going to need to catch a bus now. 

Peeta seems to understand this as I explain, and he waves his hand. "By all means. I think Haymitch takes a shot for every minute that someone is late, and I think we both know that's a very, very bad idea." That earns a genuine laugh. He clears away my coffee cup for me. Seriously, what is his angle? I'm almost tempted to have that second date, if only to try and figure him out. Almost. 

\-----

I slip my coat off while I'm in the elevator and leave it with the receptionist, Lavinia. She's on the phone, but she holds up a hand, as if she wants to speak with me. I shrug her off, whispering that I'll catch up with her on my way out. I'm about thirty seconds away from being late, so we can chat later.

When I reach Haymitch's office, I take a deep breath. The old drunk is at his least fun when he's lecturing, but this isn't the worst thing I've done. There was the Peterson incident. And I survived that, so I can survive this. 

I knock slightly, and then walk in without an answer. But it's not Haymitch that is sitting behind the desk. Apparently, things are much more serious than I thought they were, if Haymitch was overruled. And there are only maybe, maybe five people who can overrule him. 

And today, it's Coriolanus Snow. Fuck.


	3. Punch Clock Villain

I can feel my heart pounding in my ears, and I want to back out of the room. Slowly, and steadily, as if Snow were an asp to be avoided. Or maybe I could just slug him. I'm pretty sure that would be more satisfying, but, with the two bodyguards over his shoulder, I don't think that's possible. Coriolanus Snow has a way of evoking such strong emotions in people, both positive and negative (though I've only experienced one side of that coin). The man built a legitimate empire, and, when that wasn't enough, he built an underground one, too. Any moment of misery or self-loathing I've had for the past four years can be directly attributed to Snow.

"Katniss Everdeen," he begins, motioning to the chair on the front side of the desk. He looks so comfortable in Haymitch's desk, probably because he owns it. "You know my friends, Brutus and Enobaria."

I nod once. That's generally the best course of action when you're talking about two people that can snap you like a piece of raw spaghetti. Between the two of them, there must be at least three guns and five knifes, and that's just what I can see from my current vantage point. No doubt there's much more hidden in places I can't, or don't want, to see. Brutus is a big guy, in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with muscles as wide as basketballs. Enobaria, on the other hand, is lean. You can almost see that she would have had curves, had she not developed an addiction to the gym. The stories on these two are all over the place—they've practically got their own mythology—but the general thought is that they started out as contracted employees. They just never left after their terms were up.

"Where's Haymitch?" Did what happened last night somehow get leaked to Snow before I even made my report? Did Peeta—something in my gut tells me he didn't, but I don't think he's earned that trust yet. This whole set-up reeks of an ambush. Despite being the most "powerful" person in the room, there's not much I can do to get out of here. I could start a fire to get out, sure, but all it would take would be a well-placed bullet or a well-thrown knife to stop me from roasting them.

Snow chuckles, as if he's agreeing with the laugh track on sitcom reruns. It's so nice to know that my elevated pulse is comedic fodder for him. "No need to start planning your escape, Miss Everdeen. Your mentor is perfectly safe and sound. I just told him that I wanted to hear a report straight from you."

Bull shit. I still don't trust him. He leans forward in his seat, as if revealing a great secret. "Miss Everdeen. Let's make a promise to each other, right now, if it will ease your mind. I will never lie to you. And you will, in turn, never lie to me."

How can he do this? How can he be so calm, offering me a card when he already knows it matches nothing in my hand. A promise from him means nothing to me because he won't keep it, but he'll hold me to my end, no doubt. Still, "Yessir," is the only reply, and the bastard knows that.

"Very good." He nods to Brutus and Enobaria. They begin to move out of the office. "My friends will be standing outside the door, Miss Everdeen, but they'll still be able to help if we need them." Translation: I trust you but never enough.

As the two thugs leave the room, I'm struck by the smell of roses. Normally, Haymitch's office smells like gin, that combination of alcohol and juniper (and maybe a bit of lime when he's feeling particularly fancy and makes gin and tonic instead of drinking the liquor straight out of the bottle). The room is very masculine—dark wood, leather, big furniture—and so the roses stand out even more so. I can almost feel the roses growing off of some invisible trellis, and it feels like they're climbing me, cutting me with their thorns and strangling me with the stems.

I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. I have also apparently crossed my arms, but I'm not sure at what point my body decided to be so defensive. Snow decides to look me straight in the eye, his blue to my grey. "Last night was suboptimal, to say the least, when you requested assistance. The dispatchers agreed that you were a lost cause, in fact, and made the call not to send any back up." Wait, Peeta wasn't sent by dispatch? Then how did he know where I was?

"And yet here you stand. Unharmed and unseen, mission completed. None of the eyewitnesses mentioned you in their reports, and in a few hours, my good friend the fire warden will provisionally rule that the fire was an accident. Congratulations are in order, Miss Everdeen; you've exceeded all expectations."

Does he know that Peeta was there? Is this an attempt to bait me? Or does Snow really not know? And if it's true, dispatch had given me up for good, then who sent Peeta? Haymitch? It's just irrational enough that it could have been him. And if it was, I'm going to have to have a long talk with him about underestimating me.

"Of course," Snow continues, "I'd like to hope that there's a simple explanation. Perhaps your secondary power has decided to make an appearance again?" There's an edge, and I know this is the first test of my mandatory oath to tell the truth.

I'm offended that he would even ask. "People would still remember the singing, even if they forgot the person. Sir." Though it kills me to keep his gaze, I have to. I'm not lying. 12s are supposed to be psychics, but I've generally failed in that regard. For classification purposes at Snow Industries, my seconday power is fire manipulation and the associated vulnerabilities and weaknesses. My tertiary power is a combat skill, being an expert in archery. My primary power, however, is hypothetically the ability to mesmerize people when I sing. Hypothetically. I haven't been able to command my primary power for the past four years. Since my father died. When my contract was written, the theory was that I would regain use of the power after the emotional shock was cleared and then truly be a 12, but that never happened. It's the one ability that, while written in my contract, Snow Industries can't use for its own benefits. The downside is, however, that I can't use it, either. I try most days to forget I once had it because that attaches a heaviness to my day. It reminds me of my dad, and that hurts too much. It's easier this way.

Snow, once again, finds me and my tiny defiance funny, as he chuckles. "Well, then, Miss Everdeen, you truly are an enigma. Normally, we'd be subjecting you to disciplinary hearings and probation, but for today, it seems no harm, no foul. I'm not lying to you when I say, Miss Everdeen, that next time I will not be so lenient." I'll freely admit that I did not read the contract fully when I signed it, but from the way his eyes have narrowed, I'd be willing to guess that I don't want to know the extent to which he has threatened me.

"It won't happen again, sir." And it won't. I've learned my lesson. The job and the Institute will always be more important to dispatch, so I'm the only one looking out for my life.

"Good girl. But now, we reach the real reason I am here. Not that I don't enjoy this conversation." He leans back in his chair with his fingers steepled. "There is an initiative coming up, a team being created for a special project that I particularly hold dear."

"I'm not good with teams." That may be the understatement of the year. When I first contracted, they paired me with someone else to show me the ropes. I was fighting with her before our first job was done.

Snow just slips his lips open to show his teeth in the creepiest smile I have ever seen. "I think we can make you a team person, Miss Everdeen, once I tell you the reward."

"And that is?" That sounded far too sarcastic. "Sir?"

"Miss Everdeen, we will buy out the remainder of your contract." Did Peeta spike my coffee? I'm pretty sure this is a hallucination. It's unfathomable. I could be done with all of this bullshit before Prim even finished her undergrad degree. I might even sleep well again.

"And," Snow adds, "we will take that pretty little sister of yours off of our mailing list. I have her lovely offer right here," he says as he pulls an envelope out of his breast pocket. He's not bluffing. It's the twin of the one I received four years ago, the grey same seal and writing. Of course, it could be an empty envelope. But he promised not to lie to me, didn't he?

"How exactly will this team work, President Snow?" Maybe if it was short term, or if there were only three or four people, it wouldn't be a huge problem. I mean, my entire contract? Security for Prim? That's enough of an offer to arouse my suspicions.

"It will be a team of twelve. I've already appointed a leader." Twelve? Holy fuck. How does that even work? What is this, some heist movie starring George Clooney and Brad Pitt? That's way too many egos in one place, especially if we're dealing with male supers' egos. Something is bound to go wrong.

"What happens if we fail?" My left eyebrow goes up.

Snow shrugs and stares out into the hall through the frosted windows behind me. "Same as always. You die. Or you go to jail. This is one of those missions that you will not fail, Miss Everdeen. You will keeping doing the job until it is done."

With the smell of the roses still suffocating me, I can't think straight. I know I need to make a decision, or at least ask more questions, but it all seems too much to handle right now. Even with a significant amount of caffeine in my system thanks to coffee with Peeta, I'm not sure I'm equipped to deal with this the correct way. He seems open enough to questions, but I'm not sure that I know what to ask. 

"How long do I have to decide?" I've started to chew the inside of my cheek as I think this over.

"I need a decision before you walk out this door, Miss Everdeen." His tone is flat, which somehow makes it more ominous than a threat.

"Why so soon?" Everything I've heard about President Snow makes me think he's not the kind to show up and spring huge deals on people who have never heard of the circumstances before. Or maybe that's precisely how he gets his kicks. Throwing people off of balance in high pressure situations. Again, always having the upper hand is the best way to win poker.

"The team already started preparing two weeks ago; you are coming in as one of the replacements after an unfortunate accident."

That almost sounds like an admission of guilt, or at least of weakness. He tries to turn "unfortunate accident" into a threat with a scowl, but it can't detract from the fact that something went wrong. I'm curious, and I lean slightly forward. "What happened?"

"Oh, Miss Everdeen, just because I promised not to lie to you doesn't mean that I will answer all of your questions." He sounds almost proud, like a grandparent admonishing and praising at the same time.

"Why me?" That's the part of this I really can't get my head around. I'm only four years into my contract, at the bottom of the pecking order, and I've never been good at group projects. Not since preschool, and I'm pretty sure that Snow Industries somehow has all of my academic records ever.

I can almost see the support beam falling down in front of me again, closing off this topic of conversation as he speaks. "Because you have a specific skill set that would fit this project nicely."

I stare at him. "You know I still can't Sing."

"I assure you, it is not for that talent that I assigned you." Yes, because lighting things on fire is so helpful. It's one of those skills, do it too many times, and people start to think there's an arsonist. It has to be on his mind; there's no reason I'd be involved if it weren't. But I'm not going to be getting any more information from him on the subject.

"How long will this last?"

"As long as it takes." His poker face could give Lady Gaga a run for her money.

I really don't have a good feeling about this. My stomach feels tight, like a snake is coiling around it and squeezing me. "What happens if I say no? If I walk away?"

"Nothing. Nothing that wasn't going to happen already. You continue to do assignments you receive through Haymitch. You serve out eight years on your contract. And your sister, like every child in our database, receives this letter in the mail. Standard protocol, you see," I open my mouth, and he smiles, "but your nondisclosure agreement precludes you from telling dear—" he takes a moment to read the name on the letter—"dear Primrose anything about your current occupation. At least, not until she is one of us."

He has me. He has me, and he knows it from that smug little look on his face. In the back of my mind, I knew Prim might be recruited, but now? He's essentially said it will be my fault if she is. I trust my sister to not do it, but I can't take that risk. I have to do this now. I know I should be asking more questions, know exactly what I'm signing myself up for, but I can't let myself be talked out of this.

One deep breath later, and I'm saying, "Let me sign the paperwork."

"Oh good. I'll have Enobaria bring it in." He claps his hands, and she opens the door and reappears. "Did you know she has a law degree? Very multi-faceted, this one." Enobaria smiles as she sets the papers down, and I swear her teeth are pointed, posed for a kill.

A very large hand rests on the back of my chair, but I don't turn around to look at Brutus's re-entrance. Suddenly, this office is starting to feel claustrophobic, and I just want to sign the damn papers and go. I don't however, carefully reading them this time. Perhaps there will be a clue here, something Snow isn't telling me. The wording doesn't seem to be that different from my original contract, though this one does have an indefinite ending. "Until the Initiative has reached its completion, as determined by the President of Snow Industries." Only then will my contract close. There's also a clause about how my current contract is considered frozen. I won't be serving time on it—that is, however long this mission takes won't count towards my current requirements if I decide to back out—but I won't be forced to do any missions on that contract, either. I won't need to meet with Haymitch for my mentoring meetings until all of this is done, but that's implied. There's no line in the contract forbidding it.

The nondisclosure is tighter than the original contract, however. It encompasses not only my own involvement, but the names and involvement levels of everyone on the team. There goes my relative anonymity in this building. There are maybe ten people who know my name. Maybe. Now that number will be doubled. But what can I do? I sign on the line and date it. Snow signs, and both Brutus and Enobaria witness it.

When all of that is done, Snow hands me Prim's letter. I open it, just to confirm it wasn't a bluff. The letter is real, the same stupid brochure I fell for. I burn it right then and there, with a few blue flames coming from my middle finger. Brutus, who has by this time moved to flank Snow, steps forward to stop me, but Snow just shakes his head. "You have a brilliant flair for the dramatic, I must say, Miss Everdeen.

"On Friday night, you will head to The Crane on Smallman Street. You know the place?" I nod once. "Good. You will wear this scarf—" Enobaria hands me an orange and red scarf, and I want to scoff at the obvious choice—"and a man will approach you at the bar. He will know your full name, and he will order you a drink. It is at your discretion as to whether or not you drink that shot, but you are expected to leave with him. He will take you to the meeting. Are we clear?"

I nod once. "Good. And, next week, you will need to see the wardrobe apartment again. There are some new clothes and new prototypes for you to try on." There's an entire department of the illegitimate side of Snow Industries that deals with clothing. They designed my fireproof clothes, and pretty much anything else anyone ever needs.

I nod. "Yessir." I think Madge wants to go dress shopping next week for the benefit on Saturday, so it looks like a lot of people will be staring at my body over the next few days.

"Well, Miss Everdeen," he says as he rises, "it has been a pleasure meeting with you. I have no doubt that you'll do brilliantly on this assignment."

"Thank you, sir." I bow my head in what I hope looks demure. At this point, I really just want him to leave, which he does without another word. His two bodyguards follow behind him.

I curl myself up on the chair, just trying to come out of the numbness I've felt since I decided to sign. I can't quite feel my toes, even though I'm grasping my ankles. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in…

And, as I exhale, it all pours out, burning through my veins. I can't sit, and I'm moving towards the elevator faster than I have in years. I want to shoot something. Well, someone, but something will suffice as long as I get to shoot it soon. All the rage that I had boiling under the surface while in the room with Snow is now on the edge of my skin, trying to find and sear him. It takes everything in me to not light the elevator on fire as I head down to the gym. I'm much more powerful than I was four years ago, so an emotion that would have just lit a bit of smoke when I started could burn down the elevator now. Luckily, I also have slightly more control these days. Slightly.

As I wait for the slowest elevator in the world to descend, I pull out my burn phone. The man I want is on speed dial, but I go straight to voicemail. "Haymitch, you've got a lot of explaining to do. Call me when you get this. Immediately." Finally, the doors open, and I'm moving through the lobby.

There's a small door on the right side, one that looks like it just leads to a fire escape, but to the left of the stairs once you enter is a keypad. I type in the first three numbers of the passcode, my identification (12G), and then the last three. When that door opens, there is another set of stairs, ones that leads into the basement of the building. I don't stop moving until I hit the third landing.

I need to calm down, I recognize that. It's just…so underhanded. He made me think I had a choice, and then played his ace. Pulling out Prim like that? I knew it was too good to be true. There's no way this is going to work… unless the team does succeed. If that happens, it is better than I could have dreamed of. But I don't get along with people. I nearly failed team sports in gym because I never read the cues correctly. I had two friends in high school—Madge, until she moved to Pittsburgh, and Gale Hawthorne, who I don't want to think about right now. I can't think of anyone that I could actually work without and not kill. A part of me wants to note that Peeta seems to fit that bill, but that's a stupid part of me, really. I start to head back down the stairs again.

I should be going to class, but right now, I'm in no shape to take the bus into Oakland and sit through lecture. The whole building might go up in flames. So the gym is my best option. It's got three levels. The first is for hand-to-hand combat, the second for weapons training, and the third for individual power training. The first also hosts the large locker rooms, and a few more standard-looking pieces of equipment, just in case someone manages to come down here without permission. It's only when you get up close that you realize the weights on some of these things are heavier than semis. The doors to the lower levels are locked again, with two different four-digit codes, just in case.

I change clothes quickly, tugging at my top a little too hard in my eagerness to switch into the spare set of workout clothes I have here. I then head down to the second level, and unlock my personal bow and arrow. In terms of SI's assessments of me, this is the least powerful of my skills. Especially considering the fact that it's highly conspicuous to carry around a bow and arrow in broad daylight. It's sad when starting fires is less conspicuous. I've never used archery on the job, but they still let me practice with all kinds of arrows—some with high tech modifications, some without—in case it might come in handy.

As soon as I string the bow, I am still. All of the infinitely small motions that my agitated body makes, from twitching fingers to darting eyes to bouncing feet, stop. My brain focuses as well, and I am calm. This is my true gift from my father, much more than Singing could ever be. He taught me how to hunt, how to listen to my body and the environment. There is nothing more calming, more comforting, than holding the bow to my shoulder and releasing the arrow. I hit the center of the target, a man's heart, and then I try it again.

A half hour of this does my brain wonders. For the first time, I'm able to see how this might work out. I'm not expected to lead the team, after all, and it doesn't matter how much work I put in. As long as the job is done, I'm okay. Maybe I won't be vital, considering I am a replacement, and maybe I can just do my share and finish. Lord, I sincerely hope so.

I still want to shoot Snow, though, so perhaps I'd better rejoin the real world upstairs. Burn off some anger by sparring with a living person.

There are very few people that I can actually fight, and it's not because of my strength levels. While powers aren't supposed to be used on the first floor, sometimes accidents happen, so it's generally advisable that someone with fire powers fights someone else with fire powers—classically, a 7—or someone with water powers—a 4. Technically, I could also fight someone who was invincible, but I'm nowhere near the weight class of any of the strongmen who typically come with that power. That'd be a way to get myself killed.

Luckily, there's the smiling face of one of my favorite assholes hanging out by the water cooler with some of his friends. 4A. Standard water powers. Top in his class, obviously, and he's one of the oldest people here. He's got to be turning thirty soon, and hitting the end of his contract. Four never wears a shirt, so I'm pretty sure the girls that gush over him in the locker room aren't really thinking about his bronze hair and green eyes. He'll flirt with anyone, but I've never seen him do anything more serious than that. Personally, I think he's gay.

When he sees me heading towards him, he whistles. "Hey, Twelve, you want to light my fire?" He finishes his glass of water and smiles.

Am I supposed to swoon? I roll my eyes. Like I haven't heard fire innuendo before. "Maybe if you beat me? Best of three?" I stop a foot or two in front of him, far enough away that I don't have to tilt my head to look up at him. I hate being put at a disadvantage when it comes to men's heights.

Four shrugs to his companions, a few guys I don't know. "Whatever the lady wants," he says, standing up straight and holding his arm out in a faux-courtesy. I shrug him off, and we head to the mats. They're sweaty and stinky, but not much more than a regular gym. I suppose having a the largest criminal empire in the state doesn't guarantee a good cleaner.

I immediately crouch into a defensive stance, without any preamble. Four, however, takes his time, looking me up and down again. This time, it's much less sexual, and he lingers on my face. "You're in a good mood today, Twelve."

I straighten up and sigh. "Meeting with Snow. But come on. Let's do this."

He ignores me. "Ooh, what was the meeting about?" I glare. He knows I can't tell him that. He laughs. Seriously, what is it with people laughing at me today? They do know I can torch them, right? "You're so easy to tease, Twelve. But I think you just like being the enigma at the gym."

I roll my eyes. "Please." I'd rather be left alone, not knowing that several of the guys are checking my ass out at this moment. They don't seem to realize that working out in shorts and a tank just means that I like to move, not that I like catcalls.

"Oh, it's true. Nobody really knows what's going on in 12G's mind. There's actually a pool going around to see when you'll crack. I'm currently in for next week, if you don't mind hurrying up a bit."

I start to heat up a little bit. "I'm not the only closed book!" I happen to be the most closed, true, but he doesn't have to call me out on it.

"Yeah, yeah, you are." Four is having way too much fun with this conversation, I can tell.

I try to come up with someone that I know less about. My brain finally lands on Peeta. Even after a date with him, I still don't really know what his powers are. "What about 12B? Huh?"

Four looks at me like I'm crazy. "Bravo? He's a nice kid. Not a closed book."

"Oh really?" I put my hands on my hips. There is no way that he's serious about this. If Peeta had used the idea of a third date he knew wasn't going to happen one more time, I'd have screamed.

"Does someone have a crush?" I can see the wheels in his head churning out the locker room gossip now.

"No! I just bumped into him, and he didn't really let anything slip. I couldn't even get his powers out of him." There. That has to be more antisocial than I've ever been accused of being. Everyone knows I start fires. Okay, they might not know what else I do, but still. I really don't technically do anything else, so it's fair.

"Really?" Just once, I want to have a conversation with Four where I'm not pulling teeth to get him to say what I want to know. I suspect he feels the same way.

"Four, come on." He looks at my blankly, and I stamp my foot a little. "What do you know about 12B? Tell me." I'm tired of talking, and so I take a swipe at his head. He blocks it, though, proving once again I've got more to learn when it comes to hand-to-hand combat.

4A has an amazing ability to raise his eyebrow when he is questioning someone. I feel like the muscles one his face might be the strongest in his body. "Well, he's new? Is that what you want to know?"

"He's new? How new?" That's not what I was looking for, but it's still an interesting piece of information. It also makes me feel better for not noticing Peeta before yesterday, if he's not been here long. I bounce around a little bit, concentrating on my footwork. Moving 4A around the floor is a good way to wear him out, considering I'm smaller than him.

"Like, a year?" He shrugs, and just when I'm about to take advantage of that, he aims straight for my head. I duck quickly and then unfurl myself.

"Then how does he outrank me?" Usually, letters go to the most senior member in the classification, but there are exceptions.

Four laughs. "Because he, unlike this one person I know, is much better at keeping his head down and following the rules." I could make a comment about how I'd rather not be a suck up, but I've got more pressing questions.

"What're his powers? I mean, besides the whole strongman thing." I finally manage a hit while Four looks at me in confusion. It's to his shoulder because he deflected, but still. First contact.

"Strongman? Your boy's not a strongman. Well, I mean, no more than you or I. He's built, sure, but the man's all mortal." 4A pauses. "You know, I overthrew him once in practice. If you're looking for a strong man." Another piece of fancy eyebrow work. If he put that much effort into fighting, I'd actually believe he was able to overpower Peeta, but Peeta was able to pick me up as if I were a pillow. Four's got muscle, but it's not the heavy-lifting kind. He could Peeta at swimming contest, sure, but not in a brawl.

"Come on. Then what's his power, if not super-strength." I'm feeling particularly brave, and so I wiggle my fingers towards him. Four smiles.

"Your boy's a manipulator. Can get anyone to do what he wants—"

"He's not my boy," I interject, but he's not listening.

"—well, anyone who doesn't have mental powers. Which probably leaves you out, even if you've got your whole 'inability to perform thing.'" I scowl, and he manages to hit my side. That's going to hurt in the morning. Still. I told 4A in confidence about my primary power a few years ago, and I really don't want to kill him for saying it loud enough that the whole gym can hear it. I need a sparring partner. I retaliate for the hit by hitting his cheek. "He's also invincible, from what I hear." Four knocks me down, and I take a moment to catch my breath.

"Invincible but not a strongman?" I'm back up, and by up, I mean jumping onto Four's back. I've got a good enough hold on his waist with my legs, and so I proceed to pull his head back with my arm around his neck.

"Yeah, it's not a likely combination." He shrugs me off all too easily, but this time I don't fall. In fact, when I catch my balance, I get a kick in on his side. He falls, and I gloat for a second.

"Somehow, I have a feeling that he's not at all predictable." He swipes his legs and knocks me down, so that we're both on our asses. He starts really laughing then, and I just snort.

He finally pulls himself up, and then he stops. "Don't let him hear you say that," Four says quietly, and I prop myself up on my elbows to see what he's looking at. And, of course, it's Peeta. Figures.

"Four, hey, what's up? And G." He looks down at me, smiling like he's the kind of person who just likes it when other people are happy.

Four stands up and shakes his hand, patting him on the back. "We were just talking about you."

"Thanks a lot, Four," I hiss under my breath, and I stand up quickly of my own volition. Suddenly, I feel very exposed, very vulnerable in the tank and the shorts, in a way I didn't feel when the other guys were leering earlier. To his credit, Peeta isn't staring, or even looking at anything below my face at all, and no one else in the gym even cares, but I still cross my arms anyway. When I realize what that does to my bust, I quickly drop my hands to my side again.

"Oh, really? What'd you say?" Though he's talking to 4A, and his tone is playful, he's looking at me straight in the eye. It's almost as if he's concerned about my reaction, with his eyebrows raised ever so slightly and his eyes open wider than normal. I don't know what to make of it, what his angle is.

I butt in, deciding to head off 4A and even more innuendo. I'm also trying to remember that I'm angry at Peeta, for lying and not being completely open, instead of attempting to come up with a better metaphor for the blue in his eyes. Sea? Sky? There's probably something boring that I'm missing. But no. Focus. I narrow mine. "Enough that I have questions for you."

"Really? Well, in that case, since it looks like you two are done, would you mind if I take this one, Four?"

"Oh, she's all yours." I'd punch 4A if he wasn't walking away. I'm left alone—well, as alone as you can be in a crowded gym—facing Peeta. I'm covered in grime, but it's obvious that he hasn't even attempted a warm up yet. He must have made a beeline directly for us when he came in.

"So tell me, can I actually beat someone who's invincible?" My hands find their way to my hips, and my head tilts to the side. It's not the most pressing question on my mind, but it's a good start. Straight to the point.

Instead of getting flustered or denying it, he looks me in the eye. Denim. That's what his eyes remind me of. Perfectly ordinary, completely boring, slightly mesmerizing denim. Denim that would look fabulous on his ass, if those shorts are any indicator. I almost miss his response. "You asked questions, I see." Again, there's that almost-happy look. I know it's not the same as when Snow approved of my question without answering it, but it still is annoying.

"Yeah. I did. And that doesn't answer my question." My arms are still crossed. There's no way I'm even going to consider fighting him until I get some answers.

"You can overpower me, sure. Or bind me up. Starve me to death. Drive me to suicide." Never mind the difference in scale; that last one just sounds out of place as he says it. His voice does that little crack thing, on the very last syllable, that you don't expect to hear outside of a boy going through puberty. He swallows and then his ever-present smile returns. "But you can't hurt me with that little flame that's tickling your wrist." I look at my wrist and see the little orange flickers. I hadn't even noticed it cropping up. I could leave it there, see if it unnerves him. But I put it out. I don't want him to think I'm out of control. "Or any of the fire last night."

"How do you do that? Make a life or death scenario sound sexual?" There was only one kind of fire last night, and he knows that. I know that, too.

"Ah, but as I just said, it wasn't life or death for either of us. And maybe you're the one giving all of this a sexual meaning. I've never seen you in only that light." He acts offended, placing a hand over his heart as if he was wounded by my words.

I'm still unconvinced. "So you have thought about it."

"Well, now so have you." What, is he Four's long lost brother?

"Why did you show up last night?" My foot taps slightly on the mat.

"A mutual friend asked for a favor." Peeta shrugs, as if that explains everything. As if most people would go running into a burning building to save someone they don't know just because their friend... their mentor says so.

"I'm going to kill Haymitch." I turn away. I'm not mad at Peeta so much anymore as I am at Haymitch, and I really have used up my weekly quota on anger already today. This conversation is over, or, at least, it should be. Peeta stops me by tapping on my shoulder. When he pulls his hand away, my shoulder feels warm as if there were a fire right underneath the surface.

"Don't. He's kinda vital to both of our survivals." He sounds sheepish, like he revealed a secret he shouldn't have, and I have to turn back around before I feel bad.

"How did you end up with this gig?" He's not at all like the other strongmen—okay, faux strongmen—I've met. There's something… sensitive there. 'I've never seen you in only that light,' he said.

"What do you mean?" His face is warm with confusion.

"I mean, you seem too nice for this job." I gesture vaguely at him, the whole package. That's what's really been bothering me, I realize now. The burning building thing doesn't make sense because everyone here is so goddamn selfish, they'd pour gasoline on the fire than save someone in it if there were the right incentive.

"What, like Four isn't nice?" I notice he doesn't argue that I'm nice. Maybe he's catching on.

"He's got edges and dark places." Peeta raises his eyebrow, in a move that can only be an imitation of Four's legendary eyebrow powers, but he doesn't own it like Four does. It looks fake, and it proves my point. "You just don't. So, come on, what is it?"

He smiles. "Well, it seems like I've got more third date material."

I sigh. Not this again. "There isn't going to be a third date."

"We'll see." And the sweet and vulnerable side is gone again, replaced with that confidence.

Which reminds me… "I tend to not go on dates with people that try to force me to do what they want." That stabbing feeling this morning, that had to be him attempting to suss out my mind.

"Hey, I needed to see if you had a resistance or not." It makes sense, even though it's almost exactly opposite to the motive I ascribed to him. Most powers have their dark sides, but people don't talk about them. Well, people besides Peeta, apparently. "I don't like accidentally forcing myself on dates." He's trying to play it off lightly, but I can see some pain there.

I narrow my eyes. There was a time when Peeta was less than a knight in shining armor? I'm shocked. "And how many times has that happened?'

He rubs the back of his neck, looking over my head at some point in the distance. "I stole a couple kisses back in junior high before I realized that Delly Cartwright just saw me as a friend. It never happened again, I made sure of that."

"Delly Cartwright?" Out of all the things that I have heard today, this is the piece that makes me crack. Suddenly, I'm laughing and I can't breathe. I'm doubled over, and maybe it's because of that punch from Four, but my side hurts. It figures. It just… it figures. "Oh, absolutely un-fucking-believable."

"That's not usually the reaction that story gets me." He's smiling, but I think that has more to do with how hilarious I must look than anything else.

"Delly's—she's one of my roommates." The roommate I'm not sure I actually live with because I never see her, but my roommate nonetheless. She's on the lease, and she pays a quarter of the rent, no matter where she spends the night.

He shakes his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Katniss."

That snaps me out of my delusional haze. "Don't use my name here!" Honestly. I'm not going around calling him Peeta!

"Sorry, it slipped." There's a beat before he speaks again. "Wait. Does that mean I get to use it in other places?"

I blush, but mainly because I take "other places" far dirty than he otherwise intended. Oh, no. We're not getting back on that subject again. Nice try. "So, have you dated anyone since Delly? Or is the reason you're stalking me, because you've never met a girl with natural immunity to your supernatural charms?"

"You're not the only one immune… Is that how you really feel about me? Do you feel like I'm stalking you?" He takes a step back. "Because, if you say so, I can stop. I'll leave, and you'll never hear from me again." His hands are up in the universal sign for surrender.

I feel like there was an invisible cord between us that somehow I missed until he stepped back. There's a tightening in my stomach, one that wills me to step forward. I don't know how I feel about him. But I do know I don't want him to go away. "I was just kidding." There's a piece of hair that's come out of my braid that is a million times more interesting than looking him in those blue eyes right now. "But there still isn't going to be a second date."

"So I've heard." Okay, how hard can it be, to look him in the eyes? He's not exactly the most threatening person I've met, not by a long shot. I meet his eyes and he's smiling again, the worry lines around his eyes refolded into ones of laughter. The blue dances.

I am entirely too comfortable staring at him for my own good. "I've got to go." We haven't had our promised fight, but that's okay. I brush past his shoulder and head towards the locker rooms.

"Okay. I'll walk you out." He starts to follow me, but I stop and turn around.

"I don't need any help." I meant that to be more forceful than it was, but somehow, it comes out soft and low.

He lays a few fingers on my arm, and I don't pull away. It almost feels grounding, like he's an extra wire taking away those sparks fluttering through me. "Katniss, there's a difference between needing and accepting. Or needing and wanting."

I shake my head, trying to clear the smoke being around him like this is creating. It's must more dangerous here than it was in the coffee house. "I don't want help." I meet his eyes again.

"Okay, suit yourself." There's a pause, and then, "Want a second date?"

"No!" It's too quick, even I know that.

He doesn't sound very dejected. "Okay, okay. I wouldn't want to be stalking you. But I'll see you around, then." He's teasing me. Nobody actually teases me. Well, no one besides Haymitch and Prim and Madge and Gale. But other than that. No one, especially a guy, can tease me. Not without a solid ass-kicking. But while I'm confused, Peeta has started to walk away, and all I really can see of him is his ass. And his shoulders. Somewhere, I know it's atypical to be this fascinated by a guy's shoulders and still turn down a second date with him.

As if he can read my thoughts—he can't, right? Neither he nor Four mentioned that—he lifts an arm and waves it, still without turning around. Okay, this has gone much too far. It's just the hormones from the gym. Just the feeling of energy well spent. Testosterone. It's responsible for these… wayward thoughts. This is an early warning sign. I'd better get out of this place before I start growing chest hair.

As I pick up my clothes and head to the showers, however, a redheaded figure leaves them. I think she's one of the shapeshifters, a 5. She's moving out fast, her hair still dripping and her towel pulled tightly to her body. I silently ask he what happened, raising an eyebrow and pointing behind her. When I catch her eye, she mouths the word "Careers" and I have to roll my eyes.

The Careers are a semi-permanent, rotating team within Snow Industries. They're flashy, sure, as all teams tend to be, but they're also impressive in their own lineup. This year, there's a pair of Twosthere, something worth noting all on its own. While Twos are very skilled, they're not powered by nature, so a good team only has one or two of them. But for a great team to have two? Well, it says a lot about them. One's a boy, a huge hulking thing that I wouldn't be surprised to learn is related to Brutus, and the other is a small, pixie-like girl. She's a bit of a brat.

The worst part about the Careers, though, is how impressed with themselves they are. I've seen them talk about the new girls' bodies when said girls are standing right next to them. They also have no qualms about taking over the whole locker room. Sometimes, I wonder if their behavior is so bad just so that they can have this exact effect on the place, the ability to clear it out so they can have it to themselves. But they're just as catty when I've met them on the outside.

Normally, I'd avoid showering when they're here, but I don't really have a choice today. Although I have a lovely shower waiting for me at home, I'm still skipping class. I can't walk into my apartment and have Madge or Effie wondering why I smell like I fucked an entire wrestling team. I need to shower and dress here, even if that means dealing with Thing One and Thing Two and Thing Four.

Thing Four is curling her dark eyelashes at the mirror when I head in, and she gives me a look. I suppose showers don't take that long when you've got water manipulation as a superpower. She blinks a couple of times as I step in, and then she raises her voice, interrupting the other two.

"You wanted to talk to 12G, didn't you, One?" It's too loud, and it's obvious the numbers are just for my benefit. They probably know each other's social security numbers, considering how perfect and untouchable they think themselves to be.

"Oh, is she here? That's perfect." I swear, One's voice could seduce a liger, if he were male. She almost purrs her r's. It's a miracle that her female teammates haven't killed her yet. Maybe they're just vultures feeding off of her discarded prey. There's a moment of silence, however, and I step into the shower, hoping to just get this done with. "Twelve, can I give you a piece of advice?"

"I'm sure I am going to hear it anyway," I say with hopes of her hearing it and shutting up, but she continues on with blatant disregard for my wishes. The water in my shower stall is starting to steam.

"When it comes to 12B, well, he's nice to look at, but he's out of your league."

"I thought the Twelve meant he was exactly my league," I call back to her as I shampoo my hair. I can't help but aggravate her, really. It's not that I'm interesting in Peeta in the way that she thinks, but a part of me gets very defensive when she claims I can't have him. Who is she, to decide who's in my league or not?

"Mmm, you're funny." There's the sound of her turning off the shower and opening her curtain, so I think she's just going to let me go. As I start to rinse my hair, though, my own curtain is ripped open. I'm naked, and she has to be, too, but one of us has the ability to make herself invisible from the neck down. She glares at me, dismissing my body. "Trust me, honey. He wants a real woman, and he's mine. Back off."

Gathering my dignity off of the floor, I say, "If he were really yours, you wouldn't be worried about me." She must be one of the supers he dated before, because she must have a natural resistance to him. Or maybe she doesn't, and she's just pining. I just hope she's not actually his girlfriend, because if she kills me, I'm going to have to come back and haunt Peeta forever, and no ass is worth that kind of energy. "Maybe he's just looking for a girl that's more than a pair of legs and bleached hair."

There's a gasp behind her, probably from Four, but the two of us just stand there, staring at each other. Her, slightly covered, and me, naked and standing in the still-running shower. If this comes to a fight, I'm going to need to step away from the water immediately before she shoves me in.

As I'm devising strategies, there's a cough at the door. 7C, the woman who was my first, only, and short-lived partner when I first started out, is standing at the door. "Oh, are we having a naked party? I love those!" She drops her towel and walks right between the two of us, smirking and heading to the open shower without another word. I think this might be the only time in my life I've actually felt grateful for Seven.

One rolls her eyes and shrugs, like this is just filler television she's watching between shows. "Whatever, we were just leaving." As if on cue, Four and Two come over, look at me in disapproval, and leave. I swear I hear one of them whisper "lesbo" under her breath, but I don't care who it was.

I finish the rest of my shower quickly, drying my hair with a towel and then just braiding it. Seven calls out a "You're welcome, Twelve" as I leave, and I add a half-hearted thank you. I'm going to have to wear the clothes I came in with, but that can't be helped. Hopefully, I look decent, so my roommates don't start to question where I've been.

When I get back up to the lobby, I retrieve my coat and check my text messages. Service down in the basement is lousy, and it rarely works. Sure enough, I have text messages on both my burn phone and my regular one.

"Hey, can you get some milk on your way home?" Delly. Apparently she's back. I could ask her about… no. That's a very, very bad idea.

"I promise not to run into you for the rest of the day. Speak of the devil." 12B. I almost have to smile at his text. It's funny. Almost.

"Where were you in lecture today?" That would be Bristol, my lab partner. I'm going to have to come up with an excuse later.

And, finally, the most infuriating text of my day. "Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut at that meeting. And do whatever Cinna tells you." That settles that. I'm just going to have to kill Haymitch one of these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if some of this looks familiar, it probably is. This story was originally posted on FF almost two years ago. Lots of things have changed since then, the most important being the fact that I graduated from college last week. This story has always been nagging me about being incomplete, so I've decided I'm going to tackle it again this summer and finally finish it off. 
> 
> This third chapter is the last of the original three. All of them have been lightly edited. Some of those edits are because I'm embarassed by my earlier writing, while others are for content. Specifics about the way that Snow Industries is run have been changed or made clearer, and the timeline of future events has also been changed. I tried to not alter everything, however, because I felt that wouldn't be fair to the original readers, even if I would write very different opening chapters if I was starting over again.
> 
> I should post chapter four tomorrow, and from that point forward, I hope to have no more than a week between chapters. I always, always appreciate your thoughts, so please let me know what I'm doing wrong (and if I'm doing anything right).


	4. Unspoken Plan Guarantee

On Friday, I find it’s harder than I anticipated, getting ready to go to the club while simultaneously looking like I’m not. The problem, tonight and most Friday nights, is Effie. She’s talking about some party with her friend Flavius (which I’m not sure is an actual, real-person name), or maybe Flavius is a club, and somehow she’s roped Madge and Delly into it. Going out, that is. In fact, the only person that isn’t buying into her pyramid scheme is me, and the only pauses in her make up routine have been to ask me if I’ve changed my mind. To top it all off, she’s hogging the bathroom. She must be preparing for a siege, with the amount of time she’s spent in there. As it is, my very limited make up kit is on the opposite side of that door. 

However, I know something that she always forgets. The lock on the bathroom door has been broken since before we signed the lease. While I try to always give her privacy, enough is enough. I’m going in. But nothing can quite prepare me for what Effie looks like when she is, for all intents and purposes, putting on her face.

Effie is leaning over the sink, one leg propped up on the (closed) toilet seat, and her face maybe two inches from the mirror. Obviously, she’s not wearing her “prescription” glasses. Her hair, like Delly’s and Madge’s, is naturally blond, but for this semester she’s got purple tips extending halfway up. She had wanted blue, apparently, but she hadn’t thought to bleach her hair after the pink tips she had in last fall. Now it doesn’t seem to matter, though, because she’s been talking about this “ombre” thing. It’s a wonder that the girl’s hair hasn’t fallen out with all the processing. Currently, it’s in a ponytail, but that’s only because she’s working on the main event. Her face. 

Effie doesn’t exactly subscribe to the naturalistic school of makeup theory. Right now, she’s holding up some strange contraption to her eye that looks more like a weapon designed for gouging than a beauty utensil. “What is that?”

“Katniss! I am curling my eyelashes!” She hisses at me, dropping what I suppose is the curler into the sink as she turns her head. She pauses to collect herself, an over-exaggerated breath in, an over-exaggerated breath out. She’s not actually breathing deeply; it’s that fake breathing that just involves a lot of shoulder action. Her shrink—excuse me, life coach, he’s a life coach to help her through her very stressful life, getting an MRS degree—has told her that she needs to stop snapping at people who disagree with her life view. Or, in layman’s terms, she has to stop snapping at me.

After she’s deemed herself reasonably calm from the stress of being interrupted during her precious beauty regime, she looks at my normal school-day jeans and sweatshirt and sighs. “Katniss, you should really come out with us tonight. I promise you, it’ll be fun.” 

“Effie, I spend enough time getting groped by drunks at work.” It’s times like these when the fake job is most useful. “I’m just going to have a glass of wine or two and read a good book. You and everyone else can go to the party.” As she sighs and picks up the curler again, I steal from my bag my mascara and head back to my room. I can vaguely hear Effie continuing her dissertation on the merits of social interaction with my peers. That’s actually the phrase she uses, too, “socialize and interact with our peers.” She’ll make a great mother someday. I softly but firmly close my door.

I don’t come out again until they’re all gone, despite a few more half-hearted pleas from Effie and a sincere one from Madge. The three of them say their goodbyes to my door, and as soon as I think they’re out of the building, I put the finishing touches on my makeup which basically consists of me trying not to stab myself in the eye. 

The clothes are the easy part, not because I like what I’ll be wearing, but because Effie is such a great role model on exactly what I should wear to a club. In fact, she bought me “just the thing, if you ever change your mind” for Christmas. I don’t know where she found it, considering it was the middle of December, not June, or why she thought I would wear it, but, for tonight, if I can get it on, it’ll do.

It's my basic nightmare. Small, bright, and revealing. My chest feels pulled in directions I didn't really know it could go, and, while I’m sure Effie could find a bra that would work with a halter, I’m not that capable. “It’ll show off your shoulders. They’re really toned; must be all those trays at work. And it complements your coloring!” It's orange. I don't even want to know what possessed Effie to think that I might wear something orange under normal circumstances. But tonight, when I'm just hoping to be seen and get off the dance floor as soon as possible, the top's bright color can't hurt. Combined with the red scarf that I tie around my waist, I'm pretty sure that I won't have to wait too long. A quick switch into a black miniskirt I may or may not have stolen from Madge's closet, a brush through my hair, and a grab for my keys and phone, and I'm out the door.

It's early enough in the night that the line for the club isn't very long at all, and soon I'm facing the bouncer. He's a redhead with a serious case of freckles, but since he’s built like a football player, I don’t think anyone will be making ginger jokes any time soon. He looks me up and down with an appraising eye. With the amount of time his gaze lingers on my chest, it’s not exactly a professional gaze, either. I clear my throat.

“You don’t look twenty one,” he says, winking. I briefly list to myself the ways that I could kill him before he could actually use some of that strength. It’s calming.

“Well, I’m not eighteen.” I pull out the special driver’s license that Snow issues to all employees, one that gets you access to a club like this, no questions asked. The holographic list of counties on any PA license runs opposite the grain, but it takes quite a bit of knowledge to look for that. When Bouncer Boy recognizes the pattern, I don’t need to be a mind reader to know he’s panicking. After all, I might not be high on the totem pole, but I am most definitely higher than him. Everyone knows that bouncers are basically rejected 2s.

It's obvious that I stand out in this crowd, if for no other reason than the fact that I'm by myself. Honestly, when it comes to date rape and drugs, I'm more worried about Delly and crew wherever they wind up than I am for my own safety. It's amazing what a "back off" glare and the ability to burn a guy's balls to a crisp can do. I stake out an edge of the bar and don’t budge. Not for drinks, not for dances, not for random srat girls who are staring. Five minutes turns to half an hour rather quickly if you’re being bugged every five seconds.

I nearly drop my drink, though, when I catch sight of my contact entering the room. Because it’s Peeta. Of course it’s Peeta, because at some point this week, someone turned my life into a romantic comedy without my permission. Even as I’m getting pissed at the universe, I can still say that he looks good. Really good. He’s wearing a black blazer, and there’s button down just a hint of an undershirt. I have to stop myself from imagining me discovering what he’s got on. This is a mission, and this is serious. And this is also Peeta. I’ve seen him at the gym, so I know what he’s working with. 

Staring is okay, though, I suppose, because Peeta isn’t looking at me. He’s subtly scanning the crowd, taking in the emergency exits and the number of people in the room. He doesn’t look at the bar once, but he’s walking this way, in a meandering path. I sip on the last of my drink and bite down on the straw. I wouldn’t call the feeling in my stomach nerves, necessarily, but I am more than slightly concerned about this situation. Snow didn’t make this meeting seem so friendly, and it’s not like I can get out of here in a pinch by using my powers. A fire in here would mean mass panic and maybe death. I may be a villain, but I’m not evil.

When I look back up again, I find that Peeta is looking at me this time. His gaze is dark, but I can’t tell if that’s from the lighting or something else. I don’t know why I want it to be something else. I put my drink down on the corner and raise an eyebrow. He smirks and stops right next to me, his forearms leaning on the bar.

“You’ve got to be drawing schmucks like moths to a flame, looking like that.” He puts a finger up to grab the bartender’s attention. “Two Chocolate Cake shots, please.” He turns back to look at me. “Seriously, I’d say you were trying to get us in trouble.”

I snort. “Or maybe I just wanted to be noticed, so that we could get out of here sooner. Black isn’t the most flashy of colors.” I use the excuse to look him over. He is apparently five because his undershirt bears the emblem of a major studio superhero. Either that, or he thinks it’s ironic and funny. I shall have to be on the lookout for further signs of hipster ideals.

“It didn’t seem to take you long to see me,” he points out.

I look back at the bar. “So was it just coincidence, us meeting hours before I got this job offer?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Haymitch. Here, take a shot.” He hands me one. I shoot it quickly and lick my lip as I put the empty glass down. Peeta’s eyes go round and dark, and I’m not going to lie, it’s good to know that I have that effect. Summoning all of my memories of Delly flirting, I slowly slip the lemon wedge in my mouth. I wouldn’t say it’s empowering, not really, when Peeta has to take an unnecessary breath, but it does feel good. I haven’t had this much fun flirting since high school, back when my dad was still around and when I was with my first boyfriend, Gale. It’s like I can forget all of the shit that’s going on right now and just pretend to be a girl in a club flirting with her boyfriend. Not that Peeta is my boyfriend. Or my anything, really. Except coworker. And now teammate.

Of course, all of my attempts to be sexy are wasted when I accidentally suck on the lemon too hard. Even with the sugar coating, it’s sour, too sour to down that quickly. I spit it out, and Peeta just laughs. I try to keep a straight face, but it’s no use. Soon, I’m laughing as hard as Peeta is with my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest. He picks me up by my waist and puts me back down on the floor. I look up, about to berate him for his heavy-handedness, but we’re close. Very, very close. In fact, even though there’s not a huge height difference between us, I’m still close enough that I have to turn my neck to be able to see into those blue eyes. They’re sparkling now, not smoldering, and I can’t help but wonder if Peeta made it his life goal to continually catch me off guard. 

He drinks his own shot—without the lemon—while looking over my shoulder, and then he turns down towards me. “You ready for this, Katniss?”

“Well, I’m good and liquored up, so I should hope so.”

“Very funny. You do realize that we’re walking into a room with some of the most dangerous people on the planet under the age of twenty five?”

“But we’re on a team,” I say sarcastically. Of course I know this is dangerous. What does he think, that I believe it’s all going to be sunshine and puppy dogs? With Snow Industries, I’ve learned that everything is either bad or worse.

“Come on, we’re meeting downstairs.” He takes my wrist, but he doesn’t pull me anywhere.

“And we’re just going to slip out? With me looking all ‘flame to a moth’?”

“People only see what they want to see, Katniss.” I let him lead me away from the bar. We weave through the crowd with minimal effort, until a moment where Peeta turns around abruptly. I end up colliding with his chest. My hand rests there lightly as his arm goes around my waist.

He leans over as if he were nuzzling my neck, but instead he whispers in my ear. “Try to look like you’re into me, not like you’re surveying the place for a bank robbery.”

I pull back slightly. “Wait, is that what we’re doing?”

Peeta laughs, and I can feel it in his chest under my hand. I can feel his heartbeat, too, steady, but just a little too fast. “No,” he says once he catches his breath, “but you have quite an imagination on you, Miss Everdeen.”

I take a step back this time because my whole body feels flushed after his teasing, because our potential job is not the only thing running through my imagination right now. I’m a twenty two year old woman. I am perfectly—okay, not perfectly, but adequately—able to admit to admit when I find a man attractive. But I don’t act on that attraction, and I am definitely not going to act on that attraction with Peeta. Off the top of my brain, there are a bazillion reasons that could never be a thing. “Can’t you just mind wave them all into forgetting us?” I cross my arms. Obviously, this is all his fault.

“No,” he said, pulling me back to him and talking into my hair again. “But I can make them think we’re just another couple looking for a little bit of privacy.” I think he touches me just to get me to agree with him. “Now, remember, you can kiss me any time you want.”

I have to snort at that, but I do pretend to follow him more willingly this time. He takes my wrist to lead me down a hall until we hit a dead end. Peeta leans on the wall, and looks at me expectantly. “Put your palm up against the wall, Katniss.” Right, like that’s something I’m supposed to know organically. I’m sure it’s on page twenty two of my handbook.

I humor him, I do. The wall moves maybe a foot. Peeta grins, and he shuts the door. “Handprint reader, then?” I ask.

“Yeah. I just like to show off the tech. Come on, it’s down those stairs, past an eye scanner.” I notice that he doesn’t let go of my hand as he shuttles me down. 

After we clear security, the room is nothing that I’d expect with a raging club upstairs. It’s dark in the corners, but there are a few ceiling lamps dangling towards the pool tables. There seem to be two games going on. At the one, there’s a girl who definitely is way too young to be in a bar playing with the redhead that tried to warn me in the locker room the other day. They’re against two guys that probably outweigh them three or four times over, but the girls are winning, so they must be doing something right. There are only two people at the second table. Another boy that looks too young to be in a club, and a guy I recognize as being one of the Careers. A One, maybe? I don’t know what the kid is, but then he’s probably still in school when I’m at the gym most days. 

There’s one more table, but no one’s actually playing at that one. Rather, Thing Two, the short girl in the Careers, is sitting on the edge of the pool table, swinging her legs. She’s talking to the other Two Career, a big hulking blond guy. Meanwhile, Thing One and Thing Four are chatting away near one of the corner pockets, obviously not paying attention to any of the games or conversations going on around them. They stop to glare at me, though, when they see Peeta and I approach. 

Peeta dropped my hand as we crossed the threshold, but now it’s again near the small of my back. It’s not touching again, but his fingers are close enough that I swear I can feel them anyway. Eventually, the rest of the activity quiets down while the guy from Two looks Peeta up and down.

“You’re late.”

Male One coughs into his hand, “Lover Boy,” like we’re in fifth grade again. I swear, he’s two seconds away from singing about K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree, from the looks of the smirk on his face. No one else is paying him any attention, though.

“Yeah, well, it’s not really safe for us to be running late. Getting together like this isn’t easy. We wouldn’t be here if not for the accident.”

“Lots of things would be different if it weren’t for the accident.”

“Well, I think that’s obvious.”

I look at the redhead and the small girl, the only two I could actually see as my allies in this group. The small girl shrugs her shoulders, and while it looks like the redhead might know what’s going on, she gives a slight shake of her head as if to say not right now. One of the guys they were playing against looks equally uncomfortable, crossing and uncrossing his arms as he shifts his weight. Everyone else seems to know what’s going on, but none of them are paying attention to the newbies.

“Oh, seriously, stop posturing, and let’s call this meeting to order,” Thing Four says as she rolls her eyes. Peeta and Male Two take a step back each, and Male Two begins to address the group, looking at each of us directly.

“This is the most dangerous mission that some of you will ever do. Which is why the company is going to ask a whole new level of commitment to the mission here. We are…”

“Oh, shut up, Cato,” Thing One says. “Let’s just do introductions. And then the newbies can just ask questions. I’m sure none of us need to know how you’re burdened with glorious purpose. They’re not idiots.”

“Well, I don’t know about 12G…” Thing Four snorts. Peeta’s fist tightens.

“I’m Cato. Miles Cato. 2B. Guns and melee weapons,” the big guy says. The rest of them fall in line, giving their numbers as well as their names and powers. Some of the selections are obvious—like Thing Two, Clove Pierce, with her specialty in what she calls “sharp pointy things”—but others don’t fit in with what I know. Why do we need a girl who can fly and manipulate flowers—the underage Rue—or water jets—Thing Four, Alicia—or even me? I don’t want to question it too much, but it feels like someone was drawing names out of a hat.

Introductions ought of the way, Cato goes back to his speech. “This team has been tasked with eliminating several targets, each of which is now an enemy of Snow Industries. After the setbacks earlier this month, we are going to be splitting the workload at this point. 

“Each of you has been assigned a target. Over the next several weeks, you will learn everything you can about that target. How she drinks her coffee, what lies he tells his mother when she calls, which side of the bed she considers hers. Gadget here will be the point coordinator for this mission. If you need tech, you go to him. But the less of a footprint we leave, the better, you read me? This is recon. This is no time to get cocky. Just get the damn info, and don’t get caught.

“Then, when I say that you have enough information, we will meet as a group to discuss potential ways to eliminate that target. I repeat, no one, no one is authorized to perform any kind of offensive action without my permission. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the group says, some mockingly, some sincerely.

“Good. Now, for the folders. Pay attention because target assignments have changed since the shake up.”

I open my folder, and a very familiar face stares up back from me. Blond hair, nice smile. Blue eyes. None of it too distinguishing, but I still swear, I’ve met this woman before. I look down and then I see the name. “Maysilee Donner.” That would be Senator Maysilee Donner, naturally. Madge’s aunt, Senator Maysilee Donner.

I’m supposed to help kill a sitting US Senator. I’m pretty sure I just skipped a couple criminal levels, from arson to treason.

“I can’t have this target,” I say. Everyone stops and looks at me.

“You feeling chicken already, Katniss?” Alicia actually sneers.

“No, I just already know her.” I close the folder and hold it to my side. I really don’t want to read any more, lest I freak out in front of my brand new colleagues. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’re close personal friends with her.” The rest of the Careers find this statement from Marvel (or David or Thing One) hilarious. 

“Actually, her niece, but close guess.” I smile tightly. I just love it when people imply that I’m white trash. I could envelop them in a huge hug of fire for being so nice and kind. 

By my estimations, Glimmer hasn’t let her jaw down that far in at least two hours. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’re roommates, actually.” Glimmer looks like she might have a retort to this, but, honestly, if the original recon team didn’t know that Madge was my roommate, maybe that’s what got them in trouble.

Cato cuts in. “Fine. Katniss, take Seneca. Glimmer, you’re back on Maysilee.” 

“But Cato…”

“Glimmer.” From what I learned in introductions, that’s not her real name. It’s Jessica or Jennifer or something completely unmemorable. Glimmer is the name of the project she gets her powers from. Besides invisibility, Glimmer can phase through matter. I should count myself lucky that she didn’t try to physically join me in the shower.

She huffs and flips her hair. “Fine.” She nearly rips my folder out of my hand and smacks hers down onto the pool table.

“Do we know why these specific targets were picked?” My voice doesn’t sound as casual out loud as it did in my head.

“I don’t ask questions,” Cato grunts.

“Don’t ask, or won’t tell?” Peeta says, thumbing through the folder on Seneca in his hands. It would be casual disinterest if not for the tension in his shoulders.

Cato clenches his jaw and flexes his neck. “Peeta, I’m the leader of this team, and I don’t like you questioning my authority.” He puffs out his chest, and this catches the attention of the two big guys, Thresh and Oscar. The rest of us fall silent.

Peeta puts the folder down and gets up into Cato’s face. “And I thought this was supposed to be a place of complete trust. Or did that go out the window after the fiasco, too?” Cato’s jaw twitches. I didn’t think I could find the incident that brought me onto the team any more interesting, but now I am on the verge of asking it aloud in front of everyone. If either of them had my powers, they would be up in flames by now.

“Oh dear Lord, just let me get a measuring tape, and we can get this all settled with now!” Clove, Thing Two of all people, cuts the tension. The boys back away from each other, and Matt and Thresh, the two big guys, sat back down.

“Okay, I’m out of here,” Jackie says, slipping to the other side of the room before anyone can stop her. The rest of us don’t hang around much longer. Camaraderie is not exactly the strong suit here. Even among the Careers, there’s a kind of tension I can’t articulate, especially between Glimmer and Clove. Their conversation is peppered with those little kind of insults that only your best friend can come up with, and so they hurt twice as much. 

Peeta, the only person not standing, looks up at me from his folder on Seneca Crane. “How’d you get here?”

“I took the bus.” And, truly, I relish schlepping my ass back into town and then to the South Side and my lovely, lovely apartment. My feet are already dying, just thinking about it.

He closes his folder. “Let me drive you.” I raise an eyebrow, and he holds his arms up in surrender. “I promise, just as a friend. No more fake boyfriend antics.” 

I look at my phone (with no service at all). It is late enough that I shouldn’t turn down the ride. And if I refuse to invite him up at the end of the ride, that should send a loud and clear message about how much this doesn’t change things. So I nod in assent, and we head up the stairs silently and at least two feet apart. 

When we hit the dance floor, the crowd forces us to walk a little closer, which would be fine, until I hear familiar voices. I make the mistake of turning towards the noise and find my roommates sitting at a table over on my left. Worse yet, they notice me as well. 

“Katniss?” Effie gasps, her wrist going slack so that her wallet hits the table. I should have brought my smelling salts with me.

“Peeta!” Delly bounces and waves her hands. “Guys, it’s Peeta and Katniss!”

Peeta smiles wryly. I swear under my breath. There goes my evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, guys, for the views, the subscribes, the bookmarks, and especially the comments! It's great to be back in fanfiction, and I'm happy to please. Let me know what you think about this chapter, which marks the first new thing for THG fanfic I've written in over a year!


End file.
